In Quiet Buzzing

In quiet buzzing Of the day I find a voice in compelling loneliness where there is great companionship. This is what i have always known about me; That I am drawn from nascent color; of pinks and greens, reds and blues - Living (I have learned) is an act of contrition that needs love and feeds on pain It is a mortal embrace with joy. M C Biegner

Exploration

Sometimes I am the New World Begging for exploration; Rich with spices Drunk with gold; Hoping to be colonized, Settled and civilized. I have a culture all my own, With my own language And my own customs. I don’t need your flag planted in my soil – Nor do I need to be claimed for another; I want no foreign gods Or Faiths taught to my children In other languages; I do not need pox riddled blankets Or my own wealth exported As the pretext of some sort of allegiance. I do not need to provide you with cheap labor, To make your TV sets or Nikes. I do not need to sell you cheap beef To satisfy your McValues - I am indigenous unto myself You must have the courage To find me and name me. Inside of me is the unknown and the unknowable: These great strengths and my greatest fears. M C Biegner 5/2005

Remembrance

Re-membering; Adding back Those parts of us we lose Growing up. Re-membering; Adding the limbs of trees We climbed as kids; Adding back Who you are, Who I am.

The Jazz of Daffodils

Daffodils know the rhythm They bounce like be-bop, They give it all up For the slow, syncopated, jive notes Of brassy horns – With faces full cheeked, like Gillespie Or pointing downward at the ground, like Miles And you think how they blow, Man! How they blow! Daffodils cannot tell you what spring is about, You have to feel it, when you listen to them. You have to feel them slide and glide; You have to know the fronds Are like outstretched palms asking You to slap them five – “Can you dig it?” they whisper to you, With a sawdust voice; The xylem of each stem Transports the smoothest water like smoky Kentucky bourbon. Daffodils hold and bend and stretch Each note, like memory or pain. Daffodils cannot tell you what spring is about, You have to feel it, when you listen to them. Then, after all this talk about rebirth is done, Go grab a hyacinth And hold her tight, real tight – And close your eyes and just sway To the Daffodil’s music Because, man, the only song he’s playing Is that change is just another kind of Death. M C Biegner 5/6/2005

in memory of Judy Richman

And, but, or, nor, for, so, yet. Coordinating conjunctions. When two independent clauses are joined by a coordinating conjunction, you need to put a comma before the coordinating conjunction. She made us recite them sing-song until they were ingrained in our minds. And but or nor for so yet. Andbutornorforsoyet? Andbutornorforsoyet. This was our last chance to learn grammar, she would tell us. And she was the woman for the job. It was our senior year of high school, and none of us really understood all of the comma rules. I was familiar with the vocabulary of it all, words like coordinating and subordinating and parenthetical from 7^th grade English class in Catholic school, but I surely didn’t remember what it all meant. And my classmates looked completely overwhelmed when Ms. Richman matter-of-factly answered their comma questions by employing grammar language. Of course, she expected they would be overwhelmed, but she never passed up the opportunity to cackle at the lost expressions on people’s faces. Ms. Richman’s cackle was a signature trait, and never cold or mean as the word might imply. There isn’t another word I would use to describe it. It was playful and friendly and warm, but cackle it was.

I was sitting in a computer lab, reciting the coordinating conjunctions to myself, not really thinking about why I know them in that order, and trying to decide whether or not a comma was needed. (Ms. Richman used to recite that Oscar Wilde quote to us all the time: “I have spent most of the day putting in a comma and the rest of the day taking it out.” She loved Oscar Wilde. We read The Importance of Being Earnest in her class that year, and she insisted on reading the role of Lady Bracknell. She had played the role in a community theater production a few years earlier, and that summer she let my friend and I watch the video tape of the production.) I allowed myself to be distracted by paper writing and rule for comma usage for a few minutes while I checked my email. There was an email from a friend from high school with a subject line that read: really sad news. I opened the email immediately, not really allowing myself to imagine what the sad news could be, and soon learned that Judy Richman was seriously ill and was not expected to make it through the night. I quickly signed off the computer, stuffed my books into my bag and left the computer lab.

Outside it was appropriately dark and misty, and I sat and sobbed. I tried to remember all of the books and plays and poetry we read that year. All of the lessons and questions and contradictions. The Awakening, King Lear, Six Degrees of Separation, Waiting for Godot…Heart of Darkness and the Madwoman of Chaillot. “Warning: When I am an Old Woman, I Shall Wear Purple.” And she did. I thought about her grammar lessons, how she was in the newspaper for being committed to teaching grammar, how she even gave grammar lessons to the younger teachers in the department who hadn’t learned all the rules.

And but or nor for so yet. Words that connect two independent clauses. Andbutornorforsoyet. I thought about all of the expectation and promise held in those tiny words. That night the comma between Ms. Richman’s life and death. I closed my eyes and recited coordinating conjunctions like prayers.

Licking the Beach

The ocean has a million eyes, each one shining at me as I sit here on this cool beach day in April during spring break. The beach is infested with children, a veritable sea of diminutive humanity as vast and enormous as the desert of ocean that lies flat before me. The flatness of the water is highlighted by the sparkles of light: here, I think, is where the stars go during the day; here is where they sleep, as if dropped into a great palm spread out wide and petulant. All around me are a billion worlds too. One mother tries to launch a unicorn kite but does not move from her spot on the beach chair. From her vantage point, she barks instructions to the girls but there is little wind today and the kite remains as earthbound as the children’s spirits when they cannot get it in the air. No matter. There are other forms of distraction. The kite family sits and eats lunch – Mother handing each of them the latest in designer prepackaged lunchables and sippy juice boxes replete with napkins. Then it’s off to the wet sand, where all the real magic happens. I am reminded that I was born and raised on an island. Our dinners were usually luke warm meatball hero sandwiches wrapped in foil. We usually ate as much sand with the meatball as sandwich. I recall how the hollow monotonous call of the curlicue wave, almost waving for us to come into the water, would lull me to sleep on the beach. It reminded me of our own mythologies we created: how certain flat shells were the fingernails of mermaids, and how dead and defunct horseshoe crabs washed up on to the shore would inspire fear since its prodigious stinger could tear away flesh if one touched it. The kite sisters now go down to the frigid water where they play a game we used to call “lava” - I’m certain they don’t cal it that. The objective of the game was to get as close to the swelling water as possible then run away as fast as you could never letting the water touch you. In my time, we imagined the water to be lava and we had to avoid it or else risk being burned alive. The kite sisters shriek each time the water nearly touches them. It is a pitch that is so shrill that it is nearly only audible by dogs, if any were around, though I suspect there might be some dolphins in the water who are wondering what all the fuss is about. On the horizon I watch the ghostly movement of a tanker as it hangs onto the thin line that separates water from sky. It glides by without calling attention to itself. It measures time in the way it slowly crosses my line of sight. I cannot take my eyes off of it but no one else seems to even notice it. One of the kite sisters – what appears to be a three year old – with olive skin and a face covered with her lunch has the charm of one of those street urchins you see in third world countries. Her name is Isabella. I know this because her Mother – the same woman who moments ago tried to orchestrate the kite raising from her beach chair – repeats the name like some sort of maternal mantra. “Isabella, not so close!” “Isabella, not so far!” “Isabella, put that down!” “Isabella, pick that up!” Isabella was wild; this much could be seen in her wild hair and dark, rabid, penetrating eyes. All three year olds are wild. She wanders the beach like a drunk, carrying pale and shovel in tow, alternating between pulling her lime green bathing suit off and then vainly trying to put it back on. “Oh, Izzy!” the sitting Mother says. She barks out more instructions her voice being stuffed right back into her mouth by the roar of the ocean. Suddenly, I hear the sitting Mother’s voice ring out right through husky ocean voice like a razor. “Izzy! NO!” It’s too late. Izzy has licked the beach. The look on her face is one of utmost calm. I can’t even imagine what she thought the sand would taste like – clearly she does not like it – because she mindfully walks over to sitting Mother whose nose by now is all wrinkled up in disgust. Sounds emanate from her as though she was going to cough up a hairball. Isabella, meanwhile, just waits, with her tongue covered in sand, for sitting Mother to find a clean towel with which to wipe off the sand. I startle at how long I notice her tongue is and how she just waits, looking around at the other kids playing and just sighs. Soon the saliva just runs down her tongue and she is drooling like a panting dog. What made her think this was a good idea? I learn later that this is actually a behavior of hyperactive or autistic kids who have mineral deficiencies. I read later that about 25% to 30% of kids have this condition known as pica. But I don’t imagine Isabella to be one of these. She is wild I tell you. I begin to think of this action in a larger scope. Maybe she thinks the sand looks like cookie dough or maybe she thinks the sand is sugar. Maybe it’s her way of exploring. What beach have I licked lately? What spontaneous act of nonsense have I engaged in recently that didn’t involve that part of my brain that said “no” to everything? That part of Isabella’s brain clearly is not developed. Was there ever a time when I would let the curious things of the world rule me this way? Surely, I know better now. I know that licking sand will taste like… like what? I don’t know that I have ever licked a beach or if I had, it was so long ago as to be a repressed memory by now. I know this sounds crazy but we all do things that we know we hate out of some sense of duty or responsibility. How can licking a beach to see how it tastes be any more crazy? Watching Isabella lick that beach and then simply deal with the consequences with no crying, no fuss – just a look of mini-enlightenment, at least in the area of how beaches taste. So here I am well into my middle life with my own children and yes, I have traveled the world a bit and have gone to college. I’ve worked at numerous places learned many things. But here before me this three year old, this Isabella, this tabla rosa knows what a beach tastes like while I do not. I do not believe it is fear that keeps me from licking the beach – well, maybe not the fear of what it might taste like – but rather the fear of how I would look. Soon the thought dawns on me that the real reason this distresses me is that I would never in a million years ever have the idea to lick the beach. Suddenly I feel sad. I know what it is like to have all the doors of perception closed tight, locked and the key tossed away for good measure. Isabella’s doors are wide open. I wonder about Isabella. I wonder if as she grows she will keep some of those portals to the imagination open. Maybe she will be a great painter some day, painting landscapes of beaches. Maybe the colors she uses in her palette are a direct though unseen reflection of her licking the beach today. What will happen in her life that will start to close these doors in her life? What has happened in my life that has caused these pathways to creativity to close down to me? How many other ideas whiz past my head at dizzying speeds daily, hourly, even by the minute, that I am so willfully blind to? It’s a special thing when I learn from those who seem to know less than I. I learn for one thing, how little I really do know. Today is a special classroom, a special schooling for which there are no diplomas or life credits to be earned. Maybe next time I find myself at the shore, I will try to lick the beach though really, I know this is Isabella’s thing now and not mine. Thoughts don’t always come with copyrights. Maybe they should. Who knows where they come from and who know where they go? Maybe I will top off my beach with some M&M’s though to be sure. Creativity is a great thing, but chocolate- well, that is quite another. M C Biegner 4/23/2004

What We Bury Today: The Death Of John Paul II and What It Means To Me

Okay, I’ve let enough time lapse. When I first heard the news of the passing of Pope John Paul II, I had mixed feelings. I mean I really believe it’s not a good thing to speak ill of the dead, no matter what their political leanings are or what you thought of that person. I just think that invokes bad karma or something. I feel it lessens me. So how do I sum up what I am feeling in an intelligible manner in a way so that I can disabuse the world of this papalmania (the only word I can think of) for a man who was the leader of every Roman Catholic in the world? I am a Roman Catholic, so this is a tricky thing. See, although I firmly believe in the element of ecstasy in spirituality, generally, watching large groups of people taking the death of a man few of them have met and who was in essence a Catholic celebrity, just...(how shall I put this?) scares me ... a little. We need to understand that the Papacy occupies a most interesting political/moral leadership position in the world. The Vatican mystique is part political, part spiritual and part historical. The world no longer looks to it for any sort of political guidance as it once did. But it is not like the good old days when the pope actually determined who sat on the thrones of countries, had a standing army that could kick some serious booty and was a true force in the secular political world of its day. The church had a strange role as a power broker in being both secular AND spiritual. As for being an ethical beacon, the Vatican certainly has its place. Generally, Vatican opinions on all sorts of topics are duly noted by other foreign leaders who then weigh the political expediency of their own political realities and make their decisions accordinly. In short, other countries treat the Vatican much like American Catholics seem to: they listen to the teachings, and ultimately, decide what is right for themselves. Oh, some leaders make the pretense of listening, such as a certain president of a certain country that still executes its citizens. This president may (and I emphasize “may”) call the pope for guidance – oh, wait, that was a West Wing episode wasn’t it? Sometimes reality and fantasy are tough to tell apart. But the Vatican is a human organization and as such is subject to human criticism. How do we separate the pope as a man versus the pope as the leader of an institution that has sometimes lost its way? For the record, I am not here to give any credence to conspiracy theorists who suggest that Pope John Paul II was part of some plot to murder Pope John Paul I because his views of things did not fit a particular conservative agenda. I do not even intend to talk about the various historical abominations which place the Vatican Bank in league with the Mafia, or that John Paul II worked in concert with the CIA in the fight against communism or that past popes had conceived illegitimate children, or even those accusations that the Vatican conspired with the Nazis during World War II. (Hell, so did IBM, but you don’t see anyone asking for a boycott of IBM equipment these days. It seems we like our spiritual institutions pure, but our business institutions can just have at it.) All of these things may be true, or none of them may be true. I come to bury, Caesar, dear friends, not praise him!The last time I recall giving this much thought to the Papacy of my Church, was during the heady days of liberation theology in the ‘70’s. I know there aren’t many today who would think those grand days, but I recall them as being so full of potential. This is the climate in which John Paul II ascended to the papacy. The cold war was in full swing, and the dilemma of how priests in Latin America should serve the poor was the hot button being discussed. People of Latin America were suffering mightily at the hands of brutal dictatorships - dictatorships, I hasten to point out, which were often supported by this same Church over which John Paul II ruled. Does anyone remember the rebuke John Paul gave Ernesto Cardinale, then a priest in the Sandinista government of Nicaragua, during his visit? Cardinale, awkwardly kneeling, nearly falling over as he rose to the Pope’s admonishment, wagging a disapproving finger – all on film for the world to see. This was a time, after the Paul VI died, and before the first John Paul died, that I really believed the Church was in for some change, that perhaps women could be included; that maybe the Church would speak out on more human rights issues; that maybe the Church could update it policy about artificial birth control.(It was Paul VI who gave us Humanae Vitae. If you want to see what the fuss is about, click the link. This one simply eludes my comprehension. )http://www.vatican.va/holy_father/paul_vi/encyclicals/documents/hf_p-vi_enc_25071968_humanae-vitae_en.html ) The Catholic Church, to its credit, is a strong opponent to the death penalty, a cause near and dear to my heart. The Church, in following Jesus’ teachings of corporal works of mercy, adheres to a message of social justice for all people, regardless of stage of life.So the Church has that right at least. It is consistent with its stance on preserving life, even if it muddies the waters on some issues. (Now how one goes from that point to not allowing artificial contraception is a leap even the Great Wallendas would have trouble with.) In the end, John Paul II carried on the tradition of Paul VI. He did, in fact, speak to human rights issues. He warned of the potential dehumanizing effects of globalization, against capital punishment, spoke out against the war in Iraq (how many pro-life sign carrying Catholics were aware of that? How many of these protestors stood in lines holding signs not to invade Iraq?) As the Berlin Wall fell, and then, communism, he found himself with only one adversary left in the west: the materialism of the MTV world. That is, at least before the rise of the fundamentalist Islamic movement, when lo and behold, we a brand new crusades just in time for the new millennium was born. It’s really no surprise that his message of social justice rings most true with people of the third world and why the church is growing there while it is shrinking in the countries of Europe and America. It’s really no surprise that the youth of the world loved John Paul II either, since he more closely resembled an old Polish pastor, with a grounded sense of the people around him than some sort of ideological reactionary. The world is in no short supply of charming, charismatic leaders. People – especially young people – need their gods (if you pardon the analogue) to be accessible, and human. They are already affixing the title “The Great” to his name. (I tried this at home, but it didn’t work as well for me, maybe you can try this where you work – send out a memo insisting that everyone from this date forward, add “the great” after your name Let me know how it works for you!) Looking back on his papacy, the Catholic Church of John Paul II has not changed much. In fact, it has gone from the uncertainty of the 70’s with the possibility of a whole new spiritual order, to the same comforting paradigms we grew up with and were terrorized with as kids. John Paul decided social justice was needed in other parts of the world, but not, it seems, for practitioners of the Roman Catholic faith. That is still a puzzle to me. The lack of allowable dissent, the lack of critical thinking, the lack of expression - these are all of great concern to me. Ideas are not things that come from a vacuum. Ideas require the fertilizer of debate, doubt, counter-intuitive thinking to grow. I understand the Catholic Church is not a democratic organization and I am not suggesting it needs to be. It’s just, how can we proclaim the need for human justice when one half of all the humans on the planet are deemed unworthy by this institution to simply consecrate bread and wine at the daily Mass? Verily, I say, what would Jesus do? Frankly, I think He’d be just a tad pissed. As I watched John Paul’s burial, I got a little teary eyed, I admit. I mean, the pomp, the ritual, the splendor of the event and the waves of humanity are impressive. Who doesn’t like a grand show? I suspect that he was really a man of peace; he sought to bring life to the forefront of all human endeavors. He found himself on both sides of the political spectrum when it came to important issues, (abortion, death penalty, stem cell research, contraception, ordination of women) and you have to respect a man who makes decisions based on his own informed conscience. And isn't that all anyone can ask of each of us - that we act in accordance to what we believe? Does all this make John Paul II a bad guy? Should we not honor this man? I don’t know. Maybe he’s misguided; maybe he’s malevolent. I only pray he has found the freedom in his death that his Church seems to refuse the rest of us here on earth. I pray that his quest for peace and for creating a culture for life includes most importantly, the quality of tolerance. There is so little of that these days, and the world is in such short supply. I just hope that someday my Church can feel less threatened by new ideas. I pray that She can learn that one can adhere to tradition and still allow growth. I hope that She learns that being tolerant does not mean abandoning core doctrine. The challenge for any Christian church today is to bring the living message of a gospel that is thousands of years old forward, while leaving behind the chaff of the old cultural baggage. I only hope that a belief in God’s goodness prevails. Let’s hope that this goodness, which He imbues in each of us, has not been buried with John Paul. M C Biegner4/2005

The Definition of Insanity is Repeating the Same Behavior Over and Over and Expecting Different Results

Steely legs grind sausage asphalt like meat Turn! Turn! Turn the crank over. My breath is a lullaby for the street Churn! Churn! Churn the breath over Speed drips out of me through orbiting feet Turn! Turn! Turn the crank over. Gravity grabs me with kisses so sweet Churn! Churn! Churn the force over. Then gracefully tears out my lungs complete, Burn! Burn! Burn the lungs over. When a mountain’s flexing muscles I greet, Turn! Turn! Turn the land over. With switchbacks and grades I fear in my sleep, Turn! Turn! Turn the crank over. Now into the smaller ring I creep, Turn! Turn! Turn the crank over. My breath is mediation, hard and deep, Churn! Churn! Churn the breath over. Alive through pain from endorphins I weep, Turn! Turn! Turn the pain over. Then, Finally, At the top, Ready to pop, Wanting with all my wanting to stop, Momentum so sloppy I very nearly flop, I start to descend, Uncoil and unbend, Begin to start the commencement of end. Over and over The air smells like clover, Over and over Let this man-machine marriage of pain cross over This crown Down, Down, Post crown, Toward the most grounded of ground From sky bluest blue To the earthiest brown, I hear the humming of the hum, Like a blood rush of the head, a beating drum, A tumbling crumb, No longer gravity’s bum. Muscles that ache, Now get a break, These limbs that gave now take, take, take take, I tear the wind with an effortless break, A piece of cake! Returning, returning legs and heart once a great campfire, now are embers burning. With each microsecond of speed I’m learning That what goes up with the greatest of pain Drops without awareness like rain, So though you think me insane, There, ahead, before me, over the smiling plain, Another mountain! So I do it again. M C Biegner 4/2005

Three Things

I The pink plastic flamingos gather in a pat outside an oversized contemporary house in the rural woods, leaning and a-flame, gathering as if at tea, conversing at the mouth of the driveway. Perhaps they are there to welcome. Stoic, still, blushing with no sense of coolness, landmarks of kitsch or misunderstood highbrow art – take your pick – like a piece of Warhol art, a parody, iconic; or perhaps just really, really bad taste or really, really good taste. Perhaps those who live in this house promote an artist life style, with the faux fowl signs that art is larger than the commonness of everyday; that perhaps a Cristo of the lunatic finge art world lives here and perhaps there are conspiracies of art just like there are conspiracies of everything else. Perhaps right now someone in this house is contemplating a plan to put these birds everywhere through the New York Botanical Gardens, or throughout the Cloisters of the Bronx – pink flamingos – a pat of them everywhere. “Their meaning?” people would ask. “What is their purpose?” I roll by the house slowly, for I do brake for cultural anomalies. I look in my rear view mirror and see the birds at an angle, slanted, almost animated with conversation, suggesting a certain kind of exotica that is unknowable here in this snowy New England climate. (Flamingos have been known to travel with Garden Gnomes. The Gnomes love to race them, being so small and all, they are natural jockeys.) But this a) stain of human taste or b) cool parodic high art – pick one – is all there is, it seems. Goodbye flamingos. Perhaps they are returned from the south in some migratory urging; perhaps they are part of a resurgence of flaming, plastic pink flamingos, up here to mate and bring us a revival of pop, cult art. II We have sat around this table many times and have often recited lines from our favorite movies. One of our favorite moments is when one of us repeats in his worst (or best) Austrian accents a line from an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie: “It’s not a tumor.” You have to say it just right. It is definitely in the telling: “It’s not a tumor.” Drop the voice and close the back of the throat as you say it. Try it when a friend complains of a headache. “It’s not a tumor.” The only thing is though, this time it is a tumor. It is an anaplastic astrocytoma, a brain tumor. It is a brain tumor in a fifteen year old girl. It was discovered after this girl fought for years with a form of lymphoma. They had hoped it was in remission, but it spread. The headaches, the dizziness – she thought it might be nutritionally based, since for a while she was concerned about losing weight and wanted to be really thin as she progressed through high school. She wanted to be thin, and so she thought that was the reason for the dizziness. It was spread throughout her cortex, radiating fingers, defying true measurement like most cancers, cells that grow out of control, without a plan. Who would have thought that growth could kill? It is the flip side of everything, it seems, that always gets you. A fifteen year old with anaplastic astrocytoma. Now it’s more procedures, more waiting, more experimentation – it is a race to kill off this pat of cells, pink, like a pat of flaming pink plastic flamingos leaning, having a simple conversation, and multiplying, the ultimate of tastelessness in a disease. The rapaciousness, the voraciousness and wantonness of the disease is alarming. “It’s not a tumor,” I say, trying not to invoke Arnold’s voice, but I can’t help it. It makes us laugh. It is a tumor and it is not as funny. It sits in her head waiting but there is a wasteland in this waiting. “You need support groups,” “You need to visualize the disease,” “You need to personalize it,” “You need to vocalize what you are feeling,” “Try journaling,” we all tell her. “Need?” she thinks. The concept of need is a million miles away. She is only fifteen. Have I said that already? She has already gone through chemotherapy; she has had lymph nodes removed. She knows the sickness brought on by the poison they pump into her. Every cell of her body has a memory and remembers this. She knows the tiredness like the dimensions of her bed, like every single square inch of her bed that she will now know even better. She knows boundaries. She will gather her strength and muster up enough saliva to spit. She will live. She will live. “It’s not a tumor,” she says to me in the best Arnold voice ever. She is lying of course, but we love her so much that we laugh anyway. III During these early days of spring I drive to work very early in the morning. In part, this is to get a jump on the day, to begin my day with a regimen of exercise, but mostly because I love to open the day in the same manner that I love to close it: alone. This does not make me anti-social or a-social. It is not because I dislike people though the thought does cross my mind, but rather it is because the diffused sunlight as it rises and sets creates for me a sort of confessional. It creates a place where I must account for everything in me to myself and to do so, I must do it alone. Have you ever noticed the flat stillness of the sky in the evening as the sun begins to set? It is small and delicate like the nape of a woman’s neck. It begs for relating to – the purple dripping clouds, like paint that had not dried, like fantasy artwork. It creates all around me a space that is much like a confessional. The rest of the day – the fat middle where everything happens at lightning pace, the part that unfolds billowing like a flag – that is yours. Mine is the start of daylight and its dissolution – grand tutors of temporality. They are mine alone and are my gods and truth be told, sustain me. This winter is a cancer to us all – overgrowth of dearth. Overgrown despair, overgrown bleakness crowding out everything. This has the tendency to make waking life so much more stony, like flaking shale, coming apart in your hands. It seems so much more geologic than it needs to be, I think to myself. M C Biegner 4/1/2005

Spring 2005

Spring bares her breasts in that careless and gradual way, Pulling back her snowy dressy top With the shyest movement; Hiking up her skirt of grass so green as to convey motion, Just a few inches above those luscious knees, Just enough to be awkward, Just enough to make me do a double take in disbelief – Playing this game of hide and seek With sunlight’s strong and gentle fingers, Lime green oozing everywhere Slapping together a patch of earth that is my lust – She is beautiful when she Hides in the cesura of the season - This one day in Spring – In this dis-remembering of a winter that egged us on. Just like the moment between breaths Just like the stillness that happens between heartbeats – Life infused with new hope Of things not revealed. Proving the existence of God Confirming that I really don’t matter at all – Basking in that joyful confirmation that I don’t matter at all! M C Biegner

under exposure

In this one we’re like any teenage snapshot couple, drunk with careless infatuation. I proudly wear my “Century of Women on Top” tee shirt; you wear your shy smile. We’re holding the old Polaroid camera out in front of us, and your cheek, complete with the dimples you always tried to hide, is pressed next to mine. This is the photo I’d scan and email to my friends back home, my mom. This print’s fuzzy brightness doesn’t reveal a few hours earlier when we would have been found in the emergency room after the police were called to the scene of one of your theatrical suicide threats, nor does it have any recollection of that shrill terror that by something miraculous pushed up through my throat and echoed off the side of that old brick building when I thought I had lost you. It doesn’t show the part when I was crying and tried to call out to that man across the street for help, or when you wouldn’t even look at me as you manipulated words into blameful incantations and continued on at that frighteningly determined pace. It doesn’t know about the bruise that will develop on my arm the next morning where you had grabbed me and pushed me away from you when I was desperately trying to chase after you, to save you. I only ever wanted to save you. This Polaroid doesn’t understand that I would even willingly forget my own name for a time in order to try to teach you the hope hidden inside the spelling of yours. And neither the film nor flash know about the hot shower we shared after the whole ordeal was over that night, how your shivering body melted into my arms as heavy beads of water pounded on our skin, and how I forgot about the deadly dominance you had cast over me as I sensed the powerlessness in your pulse.

The Boneyard Romance

Rutherford arrived at the Boneyard, the lone suit and tie in a sea of undershirts and dirty suspenders, wondering why he was there. He still had a sermon to write. He looked at Jackie, who was shaking hands, grinning ear to ear, the way a father did when his first son was born. There was no such grin for an uncle, Rutherford thought, there was only a polite smile, which he decided to wear, striding coolly to the bar and ordering a glass of water. “Water? Man, get your ass outta here,” the bartender said. Rutherford slid a dollar bill across the counter and received a dirty glass full of lukewarm water. The musicians had taken a break, but it seemed that they were about to reconvene. The alto sax player was in the face of his woman, yelling into her like she was an inanimate object. Rutherford watched her face, frozen except for her eyes, which moved back and forth, barely blinking. When he finished his tirade, the sax played rounded up the band. Instead of storming off the stage, as Rutherford expected, the woman strode to the microphone. She snapped her thick fingers slow and even, so that the anticipation between each snap brought the din of the bar down to a murmur by the fourth snap. Instead of a fifth snap, the band began to play. The singer made eye contact with him for a split second, Rutherford thought, and then moved her eyes around the room. After the band had played a few bars, she began to sing. “Yes, I got a Daddy, and no, he don’t treat me right…” “Who is that?” Rutherford felt himself say, after deciding not to say it. “That’s the mystery. Quiet Lily’s a mystery,” the bartender answered. Rutherford slid another dollar across the bar and the bartender continued. “Whiskey,” he said, “Every Saturday night, for like 2 years, see? Then one day she said her name was Lily, occurred to me that’s the only thing I ever heard her say, besides whiskey. Then one day she get up and ask J.J. could she sit in? He was drunk, so he let her. Turn out, she ain’t half bad.” The bartender spoke to him between nodding and pouring shots for Jackie’s friends. Rutherford turned his attention back to Lily. Her song was in its closing bars. “Yes, I got a Daddy, and no, no, no, he don’t treat me right…” Applause and catcalls peppered the air that was dense with tobacco smoke, and Lily descended the stage. She sat down at a table with what Rutherford assumed was her customary glass of whiskey. He stood up from his barstool and crossed the room to her table. “Mind if I sit?” he asked. Lily shrugged. “What’s that song you were singing?” he asked. “Yes and No.” “I don’t believe I’ve heard that before. Who’s it by?” he asked. Lily swallowed and met his eye. “Me,” she said, keeping his gaze. “You really got a Daddy don’t treat you right?” Lily shrugged. “Have you been saved?” he asked, out of habit. Lily looked down at her glass, met his eyes again, then threw back her head and downed her remaining whiskey. She slowly stood up and began walking toward the exit. “Only reason I ask, ma’am,” he began. She shot an icy glance back at him, “Ma’am, miss… Lily… is that I’m the pastor at First Baptist Church in Three Oaks.” She was gaining distance on him after exiting the Boneyard. “We have services Sundays at 10. I’d love for you to sing in our choir,” he said. She stopped, turned around, and set her arms akimbo. “You gonna follow me home?” she asked. “No, just I… hope to see you some Sunday. Maybe even tomorrow, or,” he said, fumbling with the chain on his watch, “later today. Here,” he said, producing another dollar bill, “In case you need to be taking the bus into town.” He waited for her to take her hands off of her hips, but she wouldn’t. She had a pocket in her skirts, he could see, and he slid the dollar bill in, lingering for just a moment on her hip. She put her hand in her pocket, and pushed the bill back at him, hard against his chest. It fluttered to the dirt. “Take that,” she said, quiet and even, “ and buy yourself some more faith.” She turned around. “You can’t buy faith,” he called after her, “But you sure can rent it!” He watched her disappear into the night, then went inside to find Jackie and tell him it was time to go home. *** Lily remembered that first Sunday morning she spent on the bus to Three Oaks as the last day she ever felt uncertain. It was crowded in the back of the bus, and it seemed that all the other passengers were older and better dressed than she was. She’d turned to the man standing next to her and asked, “First Baptist?” “You can follow me,” he said. When they exited the bus, she followed the man, and most of the crowd East for five blocks, then South for three. The sign for First Baptist Church bore carefully painted letters that read, FIRST BAPTIST CHURCH of THREE OAKS WHERE JESUS SAVES, HEALS, AND DELIVERS! Rev. Rutherford James Payson, Pastor Lily entered the church and sat in the back row of wooden chairs, waiting for the service to begin. Other folks were talking, laughing, shaking hands. A few of them approached her, called her, “my sister.” She smiled back as best she could. Rutherford emerged as the choir sang an upbeat, tambourine-driven, yet otherwise a capella version of “Amazing Grace.” He shone in his purple and gold robe, radiating more charm, Lily thought, than a pastor probably should. Just as the hymn ended, Rutherford spoke, booming without shouting, “My brothers and sisters in Jesus,” he began, “I would like to take a moment to welcome any worshippers that are new to our congregation this morning. I invite you to hear the word,” he paused for murmurs of agreement, “I invite you to lift your voice!” a woman shouted and the tambourine joined in, “I invite you to experience the love of the Almighty God and Jesus Christ, Our Savior!” his voice lifted to a fever pitch. “Take your hands, “ he said, “raise them up, and FEEL the power that is given to you from Heaven! Use this power to spread the word! Use this power to praise his name! Use this power to SAVE YOUR SOUL!” The tambourine played rolled into another hymn. Lily was too awestruck to sing along. She just watched Rutherford, singing with his jaw dropped as far as possible, and his eyes closed. After the hymn, Rutherford stepped to the pulpit. “Our reading today is as follows,” he cleared his throat for emphasis, “Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace! When there is hatred,” he paused, “Let me sow love.” There were scattered affirmations from the congregation. “When there is doubt, sow FAITH!” he pounded on the pulpit, “When there is sadness,” he paused, and a woman began to weep loudly, and Rutherford lowered his voice slightly, “let me sow joy. When there is DARKNESS, LET ME SOW LIGHT!” the congregation became uproarious, “LORD!” Rutherford cried. Lily could see the sweat pouring down from his face from the back row, “MAKE ME AN INSTRUMENT OF THY PEACE!” Lily sat silent in her chair through the remainder of the service, and afterward, she stood at the end of the line to greet the Reverend. “Miss Lily,” he said when he saw her, “I was hoping you’d come by.” She nodded. “Wonderful service,” was all she could muster. “I’d like to invite you to Sunday dinner with my family, if you have no other obligation,” he said. She took a breath. “That would be nice.” “I intend to make a church-going woman out of you, yet!” he said. The remaining parishioners chuckled as they exited the church. He came to her side, and leaned in close to her. She could feel his warm breath and his lips graze her ear. “I also intend to marry you,” he whispered. She looked him in the eye and raised her hand up, sliding it down his forearm and squeezing his palm as they walked around the corner to the rectory. *** Lily didn’t hear from J.J. all week, which she thought was just as well. If he wanted to break it off with her, she thought, it would save her the trouble of doing it herself. She only worried, just a little bit, that he’d ban her from sitting in with the band. She knew, though, that Quentin, Alley, March, and Jesse would go to bat for her. Still, she hated the thought of them fighting, just cause of her. It was quiet that Saturday night when she arrived at the Boneyard. Willie didn’t look at her as she ordered her whiskey. There was no sign of J.J. so far. “Where’s J.J. at?” she asked Willie. “Hm?” “J.J…. Where’s he at?” she asked again. “March!” Willie called to the end of the bar, gesturing at Lily. As March crossed toward her, she knew. She wouldn’t have to break it off with J.J. He’d died, just the way she’d imagined he would- close to his saxophone, with his eyes rolled back in his head and a needle in his arm. “J.J.’s gone on,” March said. Lily nodded. “I just knew he’d get himself messed with that,” March continued, “He was a good player.” “He was,” she said. “My little cousin Millard’s gonna sit in on sax tonight. Kinda an audition for him, see?” March said. “Mm, hm,” she said. “Listen, Lily… if you don’t feel like it tonight, we all understand, but… it sure is nice when we have you here,” March said. “I’ll sing. I always sing,” she said, “But just one.” March nodded. When they called her to the stage, Lily dedicated J.J.’s favorite, “Knock-Down-Drag-Out Blues” to his memory, then exited the stage, sat down at her table, and breathed deep for a moment into her glass of whiskey before taking a sip. *** The next day, Lily took the bus to Three Oaks, having promised Rutherford that they’d go for a walk after church and Sunday dinner. “J.J. died,” she said as they rounded the corner from the rectory. “How?” he asked. “The needle,” she said. “Mm hm… I am sorry,” Rutherford said, not being able to use the standard, ‘He’s with Jesus now.’ “I’m not,” she said, “He loved shooting up more than anything. Even the blues. That ain’t right.” “Well, you don’t love anything more than the blues?” “No,” she said. “No? Not your mama? Not nothing? Not Jesus?” he asked, fingering the ring in his pocket. “My mama wasn’t a thing. Jesus ain’t a thing. It’s different.” “If we,” he paused, “If we were married, would you give up performing?” “No,” she said, “Would you?” “I don’t perform,” he said. She looked at him and raised her eyebrow. “I would never,” she said, “Never cause you such pain as that would cause me.” He stopped in his tracks and caught her hand. She turned toward him. “Lily, I won’t ask you to do anything but marry me,” he said. “Yes, you will,” she said, “But I accept anyways.” “I feel too old to get on bended knee,” he said, smiling. “Me too,” she said, “So let’s just walk.”

Wine

After Night has had its way; After all the dismantling; When I am alone with muffled calm; When I am done with handling All of the self inflicted doubt --- I am wine that sits decanting Made giddy with the thought of flight As I face one more replanting Splash me recklessly on the ground So I may fill the cracked dry dirt Drink me full with the hardest lust I am free of wounds but not the hurt – Healed at the altar of our art, Cauterized by this grateful heart. M C Biegner 3/2005

Confessions of a Closet Fiction Writer

Today something dreadful happened. Today, without so much as an inkling, I very nearly wrote fiction! I don’t know how it happened. I really don’t! I wasn’t paying attention. I normally don’t do things like this. It happened one evening after dinner when I settled down to that quiet place – you know – that place inside where it gets real still and you can hear everything inside you that is going on; the place where all my poetry comes from. Then it happened. I can’t imagine how! I was writing when suddenly I noticed what looked like two eyes and a prominent nose pressed up against the clear plastic of my BIC plastic ballpoint. I was surprised. I mean, I was not accustomed to people in my pen where ink was supposed to be. As I wrote an even stranger thing happened. This person or whatever it was that was trapped inside the barrel of my pen, squeezed himself out through the tip of the pen and before I could say, “Great Walt Whitman preserve us”, there before me was a character: a real honest to goodness fictional character. It was a middle-aged man with balding head who wore the look of desperation like a wrinkled and ill-fitted suit. He smelled of cigarettes with just a trace scent of some morning shot – drambuie or kalhua – something that in the shadowy lamplight of my room smelled like last night. This character just sat there on the snowy white page, blinking, first left, then right as if he did not know where he was. There was an awkward silence. I couldn’t say a word I was so stunned! I knew I was miles away from that place where I grew my poetry, but where was I? I started to write some more hoping though not really believing, that this was just an anomaly. I held this deep fear that this portended some sort of gravitational pull toward the absurd and that I was powerless to stop it. Then just as before, my eye was caught by another set of eyes looking at me from the barrel of the pen. I panicked this time. I closed my eyes and tried to remember the opening lines of T.S. Eliot’s “Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”: “Let us go then you and / When the evening is spread out against the spreading sky”. I opened one eye, but the eyes in the pen just glared up at me. I quickly snapped my one eye closed and continued: “Like a patient etherized on a table…” Surely if there was anyone who could bring me back to someplace devoid of personality, it would be Eliot, I thought. But it was no use. I opened my eyes and there they were: frantic eyes, bloodshot eyes, eyes that spoke to a different part of my artistic brain. Why I could almost hear the other neurons snapping the way a heater that has not been used for a long time clicks when it is turned on for the very first time of the heating season. I took the pen in both hands and rolled it fiercely back and forth hoping it would shake free whatever demons possessed it. It was no use though The eyes were still there only now they were dizzy and crossed from all the spinning. I wrote again anyway. I would not let this dementia prevent my sweet, gentle poetry from bubbling up. Where had my poetry gone I wondered? Had someone absconded with it? Or maybe I just misplaced it, being as I am so busy lately. Perhaps my poetry just got fed up and left. Maybe, I thought, I was simply engaging in some sort of shared consciousness flashback of experiences I never had? I mean, I never did hallucinogens but people I know have. LSD, I’ve learned, is actually trapped in the human spinal chord for many years after the person stops taking it. Maybe, if this idea of a shared collective consciousness is true, maybe I am experiencing someone else’s flashback. The thought though amusing, didn’t really comfort me much. As I continued writing, another character slid out on to the page. This time it was a woman. She had frizzy, stringy hair and large overblown blotchy red face. She wore much more lipstick than she should have ever been allowed to. Her eyes were angry and while she didn’t say a word, I could tell she was reproaching me. But something about her was familiar. I could not put my finger on it, but there was a quality, something I could not articulate that made me feel this woman and I knew each other. I pondered this when it shot through my head like a lightning bolt. This was my ex-wife. She did not really look like my ex-wife (well, except for the lipstick: that woman found shades of lipstick that would make hookers blush!) but still, I somehow knew it was her. “Odd,” I thought to myself. “I didn’t know that I was still carrying around all this anger for her after all these years.” I made a note to bring this up with my therapist at my next session. Yes, it was my ex-wife all right, couched craftily amid some cosmetic changes of dress and body shape and hair. It was the eyes that gave her away, always the eyes. “My God”, I thought, “I am starting to think like a fiction writer!” So my “ex” has been in there all this time and I had no idea! I didn’t know what to make of that: first the middle-aged man, then this. What was next? I was afraid to think who else might be in there, thinking it was all coming from the pen but all the while, really knowing better. Over the course of the next few hours several more characters were extruded through the tip of my pen and onto the page: there was a young girl with skinned knees wearing a party dress, a black blind blues singer with a strong heroin addiction, a sexy movie star who was tired of being type cast as a sex kitten and longed to be a real theater actor. All of these people squeezed themselves out onto the paper and each one had whole histories with which I became intimately familiar. They were born from something in my past and I tried to match the personality up with something in my past, but I could not do it completely. Before long, I had half a journal written filled with these characters and their traits, their foibles and character flaws, their habits and idiosyncracies: I had captured them all as character studies in writing. Finally, the character who was my ex-wife broke the silence and spoke. “Well?” she said in that sharp tire screeching sort of voice I remember (I think I even winced in a Pavlovian response). “Well what?” I said. “Well, what do we do?” “Do?” I was sure I was crazy now. In the back of my mind I so wanted my poetry back. Never has a poem so much as spoken to me. Not once. “You got us here – now what do we do?” she said. “Well…” I drew the response out hoping to buy some time. “Truth is, see, I don’t write fiction. This is just some sort of mistake.” My ex-wife’s eyes grew even angrier. “See, I can’t write plot lines,” I explained in a vain attempt to explain away my fiction writing shortcomings. “I think up these great characters and then, I don’t know what to do with them.” My ex-wife’s face changed. The contours of her cheeks actually went into a near smile. “You know, dearie,” she began sweetly. “ That construction worker over there that you dreamed up? The one with no shirt on and really short shorts? You could write a part for him and me if you like. He’s kinda cute.” I looked over at the Herculean Adonis of a construction worker I had created, with broad shoulders and tight washboard abs, and long flowing hair. “Yeah,” I said, “ I need to talk to my therapist about him too.” I explained for an hour how I could not write plots; how I was sorry but maybe I could integrate some of these characters into poems – if only my poetry would come back. She didn’t like that at all. None of them did. They didn’t want to be part of no stinking poem. They were going to look for a writer with some cojones, a real writer’s writer they said. Not one of these foo-foo, woo-woo, new age, pot-smoking, aging hippy types. "Where was Hemmingway when you need him?" they said, hard drinking, womanizing misogynistic S.O.B that he was. “Great. Just great. Now I have my own characters questioning my masculinity,” I thought. They left in a huff, all of them, and I was sitting alone. Over the next few weeks I played with story lines. I even took out some books from the library and attended workshops about how to write fiction. I read once that sometimes a writer had to do something mean to a character even a beloved character, so I did. I did something really mean to a character that I loved most of all. I was in bed for a week with depression. This fiction thing? I get way too invested emotionally. It’s hard on my body and my soul. I don’t know how people do it. My poetry eventually returned after being on brief hiatus. She told me she was hobnobbing with some musicians in the Bahamas. ( Incidentally, it really is better in the Bahamas, she told me.) Soon, my poetry and I were making and speaking the language of the unseen universe just as before. But someday, someday I just might look up one of those characters again and start in earnest to write fiction for real. Someday. M C Biegner 3/2005

In the Pressed Sweet Grass

When I looked for you In the pressed sweet grass, The outline of your body was all I found; In a circle that formed on the ground Where we wrote our history Using heaping mounds of Faith. How did I expect this to end? What did I think would happen? Can I refute what faith whispers to my heart, What science inscribes into DNA? Did I believe that I would be spared, That God loved me - His most favorite of all - so much That I should not drink from this cup? I always imagined starkness without you, In the luxury of your touch, But it was never as bare as the truth. Now the value of one more moment With you, rises like breath: My love, You are the heat my body produces, You are the tempo of my beating pulse, You are my very own desire for what is good. Gone – before the promise is kept; Gone – before the map of our world could be explored; Gone – leaving just pressed sweet grass To tell me you are not here, That you have moved on, Gone ahead, without me – To someplace we’d always known, Leaving me with this limp: Forever friendless, Forever moonless, Forever alone. M C Biegner 3/2005

Islam's Flower

The Taliban has beaten me and left me for dead But I am stronger then they know, There is no burka that can cover me so Or hide what I think or un-say what I’ve said, Allah be praised for He made the bed From which I give these men life to grow, to Live, to breathe, and blaspheme God so – They've killed my husband, now send me off to strangers to wed. The Taliban has beaten me and left me for dead But I have more power than they know. This burka of fear will be shed From God's true mercy, I am Islam's true flower still to grow! M C Biegner

When

When When twilight When twilight stretches out like a yawn Through clouds The ones that separate heaven and earth When twilight reaches down from sky, Like the arm of Michael the Archangel – Willing Willing to Willing to pull me up – Willing to do battle When Twilight kisses me – When Twilight transfigures – When Twilight tickles me – I am I am made I am made weak When When I am When I am made weak I know I know neither up nor down as up or down But I know boundless possibilities. When When I know When I know I am made weak When I know I am made weak, Then freedom’s grasp is what I seek, When I know I am made weak, Freedom lies spilled white like milk that’s leaked, I know it puddles at the feet of the meek. M C Biegner 2/23/2005

The Pen

Ink drips downward, And obeys a muscular gravity, Races to the point Like it has time to spare, With no place to go; Like a stretched B.B. King note. This point, this needle, this focus of ink scratches at paper With snake-like sexiness As curly-cue round as a Rubens. Then, strings of the heart start to unroll, Pressed flat like a buffet, for you to absorb. And Through eyes like straws You suck up the meaning of ink; You suck up what it means to be lonely; You suck up being shut away from joy; And yes, you even suck up death. Burdened with the plenum of what it is to be human Filling the tube of inky wash that is you All the while Emptying the tube of inky wash that is me. M C Biegner 2/2005

Levantate

In December of 2004, Judge Juan Guzman nudged the collective Chilean conscience a step closer to what some might see as closure, but what I interpret as the nature of justice. With the statement: “Pinochet has been declared mentally fit to undergo criminal investigation” it seems that karma is as slow as New York traffic during the holidays, has finally started to come around on that wheel. It was thirty-one years ago, September 11th , when the democratically elected government of Salvadore Allende was overthrown by forces led by General Augusto Pinochet with CIA backing. Chileans have long memories and the clock is running out on seeking justice for a nation against the man who has come to represent the suffering and horror of that time. They are hoping to catch him on tax evasion, the same crime they locked up Al Capone on. Still, the country’s leaders exercise due process, not like in 1973 when it was believed the Chilean judiciary was complicit in illegal detentions, torture and disappearances. One would think there would consensus about this man in Chile. One would think the issue of national psychic healing would be a monolithic fait accompli, but this is not the case. When I was there visiting in 1986, I started an argument, trying to evade some very difficult political questions some locals were asking me. It was in a social setting, and I was visiting the poblacion (barrio) of La Victoria. One thing I will say is that even among the poorest of the poor in Chile, everyone seems to have an interest and a knack for global international politics. No discussions were off base. I found the Chilean people more knowledgeable about U.S. foreign policy than most Americans. I derailed the discussion by asking one of my guests what he thought of the Pinochet government, still in direct power at that time, before the plebescite in 1989 that ostensibly removed him from power. That started vigorous discussion among my guests. My point being, that even here, in La Victoria, a plot of land that was originally created by what the locals called a “toma!” - a land take by the poor of government property - there was no consensus. Why should there be now? To its credit, the current military has acknowledged its part in the suffering. An average compensation of $190 per victim claim is the suggested financial remuneration. Yes, it’s laughable by U.S. standards, but that is not the point. “Justice is the principal method of reparation,” Pedro Matta, a survivor of the Villa Grimaldi torture camp insists. But how justice? When justice? Commander in Chief Gen. Juan Emilio Cheyre has taken the difficult and almost unheard of task of forging through the guilt and complicity of his military during this dark period of Chilean history. When I was there, I went by the National Stadium. I was driven by friends, speeding through the streets of Santiago in open-air jeeps, probably in the same the same manner that many of the victims who were taken by the police; in the dark of night, the frenetic speed and blackness ahead, I saw it all lit up. The light cast cavernous shadows and its history made it seem sinister, even some 15 years after the events. After the detention and torture of 5,000 men; after the madness that turned this place from a sporting area, to some collective neurons of pain for a whole nation, this place seemed nightmarish dressed in its shadowy face. Folk singer Victor Jara was one of the 5,000 brought here, tortured and then executed. My brother who lived in Santiago for years, later bought me a “genuine Chilean guitar” and the chords and lyrics and a tape so I could listen to his songs and learn them. “Plegaria a Un Labrador” – was the only song I attempted. Levantate, y mira la Montana – Rise up, and look at the mountain! and then finally he sings: Levantate, y mirate las manos – rise and look at your hands. The first supplication asks us to look at the power of the mountains, the land, nature as a force and then he asks us as farmers, workers, as tenders of the land, and makers of things to look at our hands which unlock the power of objects around us, of the land and ultimately of our own destiny. The first line was as far as I got. Somehow, I didn’t feel worthy of singing these songs, or playing this guitar, or even sharing in any way in the misery or hope of these people. It was sort of like white guys singing the blues, or rap. I didn’t seem to have the “props” to pull off such humanity. Still, there is denial by some segments of Chilean society. And even among those like Cheyre who want to make some sort of accounting and begin the healing process, no one is talking about accountability. Everyone involved is waiting for that other shoe to drop, and the thoughts of human rights trials, years after the events has everyone nervous. But can there be justice if some of those who committed these abuses are still in office? Pinochet is 89 and is approaching the end of his life. They say for the last few years he has been a pariah within his own country and even abroad. Still, that is hardly consolation for the suffering this man – and others – has caused. Not that I would like to see anyone executed, but it seems to me, if you are a nation of laws, and if a law has been broken, there should be some consequence beyond the civil restitution of a few pesos in some poor victim’s pocket. If Pinochet only spends one day in jail, and then dies, it will have sent a message to tyrants everywhere (are you listening George W.?) that no matter how much time passes, there is no statute of limitations for human rights. But the accountability issue – who will be punished after all these years – is likely to stir up some debate. As much as I want accountability, what is the likelihood that the evidence to ensure fair trials is preserved and can be unbiased after all this time? Can witness’s testimony be trusted after all this time? How do we keep this from becoming a witch hunt and does this, in the final analysis, create healing? Still, these goons perpetrated enough of the abuses on such a wide cross section of the population surely some of the testimony can be corroborated. And here’s the thing: if justice implies necessary accountability, are the victims of this regime comfortable knowing that some will never be held accountable? If they can imprison a percentage of those responsible, using due process and rules of evidence that are tried and true in democracies everywhere, will that be enough? Ironically, we share September 11th with Chile as a date of infamy. This was the same date it seems that democracy here was pitched over the side for the security of a Patriot Act in this country. And also ironically this country, has been engaging in all sorts of revisionist thinking, (think, “we never lost Vietnam, we were just never really in it all the way and oh by the way, here is Iraq, which we will do right”). There are some here who are reconsidering the CIA’s role in the September 11th overthrow of Chile’s democratically elected president. I refer you to Kenneth Maxwell, Senior fellow at Harvard University’s David Rockefeller Center for Latin Studies, now well documented dispute with the editors of a December issue of Foreign Affairs, who says that his claims about Kissinger’s role in the overthrow inflamed some statesman close him. He says that Kissinger himself exerted pressure on the editors of Foreign Affairs not to publish Maxwell's studies. The editors of course denies this. Kissinger, true to form, says nothing. Here are the links for specifics. http://drclas.fas.harvard.edu/uploads/images/104/maxwell_working_paper.pdf http://hnn.us/roundup/comments/8919.html Clearly, the intellectual ground is fertile enough in this country now to start planting those seeds, what with terrorism and Iraq occupying the greater portion of most people’s frontal lobes. But while we in this country struggle with moral amnesia and a case of seeing a naked emperor who we swear wears the most expensive Armani hand tailored suits, those in Chile hold on to memories of loved ones. Photographs and the hope of justice, whatever that means, are all that sustain them. That, and that if Pinochet dies, we hope there will some sort of cosmic justice for him. Sometimes that’s all we have to go on. M C Biegner Jan 2005

The Lady In the Boat

The Lady in the Boat I glanced over my shoulder. At first, it looked like a dark spot hovering over the murky riverbed in fog as dense as a burial shroud, a curtain that quieted the landscape, even the crickets and loons, and left my footfall alone to accompany the tune that keep circling around in my head, something from Mozart I think. I had the feeling that something important was about to happen, a feeling I have often experienced, sometimes for reason but more often, not. Perhaps it was the eerie feel of it all and I was late. I placed my rucksack a little higher on my back and continued my journey along the river bank, no time to linger here thinking about impossible impressions, and focused my attention on the smell of smoke from someone’s fire as it mixed with the fog. Apple wood? Yellow birch? No time to dwell on silly thoughts. As the day closed, I had many miles of my journey ahead. I tried to shake off the feeling and continue. It’s narrow bow poked at me like an arrow as it pierced the dense cloud. Brilliant lacquered red and deepest ebony, its slick approach was silent and startling. Overpowered, I hesitated. Slowly, like the drops of mist that floated around us, it consumed my gaze, and though I wanted to look away, I was mesmerized by the site of the glistening paint, the sleekness of the vessel, as an eel gliding through the water without sound, ready to strike. And then, as I looked up, the figure appeared, sitting in the middle, eyes straight ahead, guiding the boat. I turned away, not wanting to be rude, not wanting to stare, and wishing only to continue my journey, light growing short after all, and this, no business of mine. But my gaze returned to the traveler. At first, I couldn’t tell, but soon realized it was a woman who, with delicate hands, held her oar high in the water and looked almost like a conductor ready to guide a symphony. The long braid of her hair curled up at the end and was fastened with a golden clip, like a musical clef at the beginning of a staff, and I laughed to myself that in one sheltered glance I would see music in her very being, since music had been playing in my head from the start of my journey, though I don’t know why, not being particularly inclined myself. She too carried a pack on her back, and I wondered what was inside. Notes to a song, perhaps, I thought, laughing again to myself, but maybe, more likely, notes to a lover, and then her eyes caught mine . I lowered my gaze and hurried along, muttering a quick “Good evening.” “A beautiful night for a journey,” she said, her voice lilting and engaging, one who could sing like an angel, I’m sure. “Yes,” I said. “although you cannot see far ahead.” The boat bobbed up and down gently, as the water splashed in rhythm against the rocks on the bank. I found that comforting, although the fog continued to give me distress and I needed to continue on. “No, not far ahead, but as far as you need,” she said, almost in song. She turned her head and smiled, and for the first time I saw the face of a young woman, one who looked familiar, although I could not place her. Perhaps a distant relative, I thought. Her eyes were clear, bright, intense in their gaze, and her hair glowed with streaks of light as it streamed down her slender back. He skin was as translucent as the mist, and I found myself wondering if I had ever seen a more beautiful woman. Her dress was a vivid red silk with purple and gold trim, and her feet were bare. “You would like to travel with me, yes?” How strange a question, I thought, but she seemed foreign, and perhaps this language was not her own. “I am confident with my journey here on land. I have places to go. But thank you for your offer,” I turned away, made my step a little faster along the path, but then tripped on the moss. “So silly, I am forgetting the new darkness it seems.” I silently cursed my own lack of agility, and blamed my age for taking away some of my sharpness. “The darkness is not to be forgotten, it is to be embraced,” she said, waving the oar over her head and placing it silently in the water again. “We move with so much effort, but the water continues with ease on its own deliberate course, do you see that?” “I’m afraid I don’t know what you are talking about,” I said, not wishing to startle this stranger, but needing to explain my own annoyance. “I tripped. That is all. But I am fine and must continue on my way.” I righted my sack, and my stance, took a deep breath and started out. But barely had I moved when she sang again, calling me back. “What do you carry?” The boat now stopped, her oar in the water planted firmly in the thick mud of the river bottom while her body swayed gently from side to side, embracing the oar as it moved, keeping time with the challenge of the water, like a pendulum. She is hypnotizing me, I thought; I watched her rhythmic movement, side to side, feeling both intrigued and also tired of this encounter. What did I carry? I carried much, but was not sure I wanted to get into the minor details of my life with one I did not know. I decided I needed to go on, and leave her with her questions. I forced myself to blink and look away. “I carry nothing of substance,” I said and excused myself, turning about, checking my footing on the moss-covered path. “That is good, and your journey?” she asked. I hesitated, looking from her to the path ahead. “I am not sure where I am going, but I’m searching, a wanderer I guess,” I said, wondering at the sudden ease of my tongue with this stranger. I was annoyed at myself for letting her engage me, and yet speaking to her was comfortable. “But time being what it is, I would like to continue on, it is already dark and I know I have far to go. And it grows cold.” I shivered, then looked into her eyes again unable to break our communion. “By the way, what is it you carry?” “All my earthly loves,” she said, without hesitation, “All my earthly claims.” “That sounds like quite a large burden,” I said, noticing the fog was clearing a bit and the crickets were starting to sing, everything was swirling around me again, and I had hope of moving about. “Oh no! The load is light,” she said. She looked at me, smiled with what I can only describe as enchantment, then cast her eyes downward and started to hum, so softly at first that I didn’t realize what I heard was her voice, more a vibration like a violin that is touched in the gentle way of a master producing a sound so low it seems to come from the ground or the air or the sky. She seemed in a trance, her sounds, guttural, primal, with the rhythm of the waves as it grew louder. Her voice released a captivating melody in time with the loons and with everything around us, even the silent mist, and the rolling fog, and the clouds and the river moving by us, and I realized it was a lullaby, my first and only lullaby and it pulled me and it tormented me and it coaxed me and it left me stunned. I could not move. “You will come with me now.” She crooned, both arms open. “No, I wish to continue.” I said, but even as the words spilled from my mouth, I dropped my rucksack and turned toward her, empty of hand. She nodded, continued to hum and I absorbed the sound of her delicate, floating notes and the sound of the crickets and the sound of a leaf falling hard against a tree stump and the sound of my lazy heartbeat vibrating in my chest. I watched my foot move in slow motion toward her, and then my unsure hand grab the side of the boat as I slipped in beside her, feeling light as the night air, lighter than I’d felt since a child running in the fields by my home, as light as a silver beam from the moon as it hands itself to the magic of night. The silk slap of the waves swirled around the boat and then grew quiet, and the smell of the earth and the leaves and the trees and the smoke and the moss filled my nostrils, and I inhaled the glorious perfume, let it overpower me, let it go; the sweet taste of the mist, and the salt of my tears, more flavorful than any wine placed on my lips, and it too was done. I glanced back at the riverbank as the world dissolved into the luscious velvet of the fog and mist, its scents and tastes and sounds and textures, all left to settle on the deep water, as she and the loons and the crickets sang me to delicious sleep. Dot Read